


Learning to Touch

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, POV Jean Kirstein, Worldbuilding, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1435387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is rough with everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a [wonderful drawing by Razuri](http://razuri-the-sleepless.deviantart.com/art/Babies-409018760) I saw a few days ago, and I felt so inspired by the animated expressions and body language that I wrote a fic about it! LOL, I’m pretty sure I got all the poses worked into the fic. This is set in canon SNK-verse pre-battle of Trost and just before they graduate.
> 
> Thank you so much to TheChosenChu who made a [lovely drawing](https://twitter.com/TheChosenChu/status/557249167626473472) inspired by this piece! <3

Everyone is walking around the night after their first ODM aptitude test bruised, whether in ego, in body, or both.

Jean sticks his chest out proudly and walks into the communal dining room with a grin, but he can’t help but wincing almost every time he turns the wrong way.

With a quick glance around, it’s confirmed that no one in the 104th trainee squad is putting going to be riding anyone’s ass tonight about being weak.

Jean drops the act and sits miserably with his soupy gruel and bread, just like everyone else. There’s hardly any talking, although as always, Mikasa is speaking quietly to Eren.

Mikasa is the only one who seems to walk without discomfort, and that’s because there are now rumors floating around that she can magically fly. She had acted like the ODM gear was an extension of her own limbs—no problem—and then gotten down without a word to help Eren whom she looked substantially distressed over.

It looks as though she and Armin are trying to soothe his ego, and Jean rolls his eyes. Pathetic.

“Is this seat taken?” says someone with an annoyingly cheerful voice. That same someone plunks down next to Jean on the rough, wooden bench, and he winces before scowling, since just the movement hurts his legs and shoulders.

“I guess it is now,” Jean retorts, looking over at Marco. He continues to frown, and Marco just continues to smile.

“Hurting pretty bad, huh?” he asks.

Jean can _feel_ his pupils dilate, but he doesn’t even know what to say. There’s the familiar rush of defensive rage, but Marco is looking at him so openly, Jean’s brain gets a little scrambled.

“Me too,” Marco says with a sympathetic look, taking a bite of his bread. “I guess we’ll get used to it, though. Looked like you did pretty good anyway, huh?”

“Well,” Jean starts, not sure whether to accept the praise or contradict the assumption that he’s hurting, too, “uh, I guess I’m good at it.”

Marco nods. “Yeah, that’s great. Who knows? Maybe we’ll end up in the Military Police together.” He offers Jean a friendly smile, and then looks down at his food.

Jean snorts. “I’m going to be the best no matter what.”

Marco raises an eyebrow at him, and much to Jean’s chagrin, he’s not even perturbed at the jab.

“Well,” he replies, “technically there’s actually ten top spots, but that’s not a bad mentality to keep up your spirits.”

“Whatever,” Jean murmurs. He’s feeling the quickly increasing urge to go to bed, because he’s sure his shoulders are going to feel even worse tomorrow, which will inevitably not leave him at his best. He’s determined to perform at top level every day, because otherwise, he’s going to get dumped with the losers (and walking dead) in the Scouting Legion.

He finishes his food quickly, not wanting to talk to Marco (who, internally, Jean also brands a loser... although he can’t quite muster the conviction to completely back up that assessment), and just fall asleep to recover as much as he can.

When he returns to the bunks, he’s not the only one licking his wounds. Connie is wincing as he pokes at his own legs; he’d had a little more trouble, and undoubtedly spent a good portion of the test trying to prevent the thick leather from rubbing the skin raw even underneath the heavy fabric of their uniforms. Even big, brawny Reiner looks like he’s hurting.

They all pretend not to notice each other’s agony—as do the rest of the other trainees—and Jean is just glad he doesn’t have to try and climb into the top bunk with his entire body feeling like he got his own personal beating from Shadis.

It’s lights out soon enough, and Jean lies down for a while. He’s hoping to just pass out, but has no such luck. It’s at least an hour later, when everyone’s snoring, that he can’t stand it anymore. His pajamas are rubbing against the sore parts of his legs and shoulders, and it’s sheer agony; his muscles are tired and the skin on his thighs is tender.

He decides to get up and go for a walk—discreetly, since technically it’s not allowed—and he takes a pocket mirror with him. It’s one of the few things he brought from Trost, since mementos aren’t allowed when someone enters military training, and he reasons it’s better to see what he’s dealing with than pretend he’s fine. At least then maybe he can figure out how to wrap his limbs better when they’re using the gear, to give him an edge.

He swings his legs over the bunk quietly, slips his feet into his shoes and steals out the front door.

Everything is silvery in the moonlight, and he stops to look around camp for a moment. The ODM training bays are hanging in the distance, and just behind them, he knows there are wagon tracks of the candidates that failed out on the very first day. He swears again that he’ll never end up like them.

They’ll all hang in their novice slings for a few more weeks to weed out the talentless, and then the real training begins.

Jean fully intends to be ready for the “real” training since he’s already proven his aptitude for the ODM gear.

Finally, he reaches the big building intended for bathing. There are five wooden stalls, and then a larger communal area with benches. In reality, there are so many of them, the only thing anyone is worried about is scrubbing down as much as possible with their individual buckets of cold water in the twenty minute time limit.

At first, Jean had felt a little self-conscious, even though he’d hidden it. Although Trost isn’t the most affluent district, it has its social norms, and getting naked in front of people usually only happens when you’re in a bedroom. It’s more of an administrative district—poorly paid, but not rural.

He’d gotten used to the current situation quickly, though, since all anyone seemed to be concerned with was using the soap first and washing off the muck from a long day of physical exertion.

Jean takes a cautious look around, but seeing no one, enters the large washroom. He’s brought a candle and the small pocket mirror, and he strips off his pajamas to look at the damage.

“Shit,” is all he can murmur, slightly horrified by his own body as he looks over the parts of himself he can’t see with the mirror.

His back and shoulders are black and blue, the skin on his thighs is chaffed, and his hips are also bruised. His legs all up and down are _killing_ him, and he just feels like one giant ball of ache.

“It’ll probably get a little easier when we’re not novices anymore,” comes a sudden voice suddenly through the quiet room. Jean jumps in shock and drops the mirror.

“Oh,” Marco says, his eyes wide, “sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“ _Jesus_ , don’t sneak up like that,” Jean snaps, scowling at Marco as he picks up the mirror at the same time as his pants. “Oh, _great_ ,” he grumbles. There’s a big crack through the center of it.

When he looks up to give Marco a piece of his mind, tugging on his pajama bottoms, he stops. Marco is sporting an absolutely mortified expression, and looks like he just broke Jean’s arm instead of a mirror.

“I’m really sorry,” he gasps. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.” It’s obvious he really means it.

Jean feels an unfamiliar urge travel through him suddenly; it’s the urge to be... _nice._

“Um,” he says awkwardly, “it’s okay. It’s not totally shattered.”

“Here,” Marco offers fervently, “let me try to make it up to you. I have something that will help with the ODM damage.”

Jean raises an eyebrow, but he’s intrigued. “What’s ‘something?’” he asks cautiously.

Marco turns away and motions for Jean to follow him. Jean picks up his shirt and candle and follows Marco to the far side of the communal washroom. He’s also got a candle, and it’s easier to see in the combined light.

“I mean,” Marco says, turning, “I was going to offer anyway.” He bites his lip, cringing, and then bends to pick up a small jar.

Jean can see now that he has the same marks on his skin—the same patterns of bruises—but there’s something shiny over them.

“I made this salve,” he says, and Jean’s eyebrows raise. “It’s a homemade thing, but it works pretty well.”

“You _made_ a salve?” Jean asks incredulously. “What are you? A witch in a forest cottage with a bubbling cauldron?”

To his surprise, Marco laughs, and it echoes throughout the large room; he claps a hand over his mouth, his eyes widening. They both stand perfectly still, waiting to see if they’re caught, but nothing happens.

“Be _quiet_ ,” Jean hisses. Marco gives a sheepish, apologetic smile, but holds out the jar to Jean.

“Try it,” he offers. “It really does help.”

“Why would you want to help me and give me an extra edge?” Jean asks suspiciously, taking a wary step back. “Everyone here is competing for a spot in the top ten. How do I know that’s not... hot sauce or something?”

“Um,” Marco says, cocking his head to the side curiously as if Jean’s brand of defensiveness is totally foreign to him, “I’ve never even tasted hot sauce. If there’s hot sauce around, I’d like to try it. Otherwise, this is just sort of like a poultice, but less... clumpy.” He sets it down on the bench. “I put it on. See?”

He spins around as if he’s modeling a fancy ball gown, and Jean can’t resist the urge to crack a smile, rolling his eyes. Marco has broad shoulders covered in freckles; his skin is faintly tanned, and Jean remembers he said he was from outside of Trost. Well, that, and he makes salve from the woods.

“All right, fine,” he finally yields, “but if this burns my skin off, I’m coming after you in your sleep.”

Marco laughs softly, making sure to keep his voice down this time. “Okay, deal.”

Jean unscrews the cap and dips his fingers into the stuff. It smells faintly minty, and he raises an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing fancy,” Marco says as Jean hesitates. “It’ll just help your skin cool down.”

Jean takes two fingers and gingerly rubs the salve against the marks from the straps, and it immediately feels better.

“Wow,” he murmurs, getting more enthusiastic. “That actually works.”

Marco smiles happily. “Want me to do your back?”

Jean practically sputters at Marco’s forwardness, but he looks totally at ease, as if it’s a suggestion anyone would make.

Maybe it is. Jean is finding out quickly that he’s sort of a prude compared to some of the other trainees who’ve probably been stripping down and washing with cold water from buckets their entire lives.

“Um,” he says, “okay. Just... don’t press too hard.”

He’s not willing to admit how much it hurts, but he thinks Marco already knows, since he’s covered in bruises, too.

He turns around and tenses when Marco first smears the salve over the worst parts, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. Jean’s eyes slide shut and he sighs in relief. The salve is effective, but he has to admit that Marco’s fingers actually feel nice. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched him for any other reason than to strap on ODM gear or kick him in the gut.

“There,” Marco says, satisfied. “You’ll probably feel a lot better tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Jean says sheepishly, putting his shirt back on.

Marco offers up one of those smiles—all goddamn sunshine—but Jean finds himself unexpectedly smiling back.

“Watch out,” he says, making a cocky face, “I might be better at ODM than you.”

Marco snorts and rolls his eyes. “Ask me next time you need some more.”

A few days later at dinner, Jean casually asks Marco if the ODM gear is still bothering him as much.

Without a word, Marco discreetly slides a small jar over to him across the table, and nods.

Jean mutters thanks, and accepts it.

= = =

“Can this _get_ any worse?” Jean shouts in frustration at no one in particular.

He’s hanging upside down from a tree, having fallen behind from the rest of the trainees. It’s their second day actually being out in the forest, and Jean is finding that having an aptitude in the ODM training bays does not necessarily equate with being good at flying through trees.

“Kirschstein!” Shadis shouts. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing!” Jean shouts back, his voice hoarse. “I think my gear is faulty!”

“Shut up, Kirschstein, and get yourself untangled before you ruin your ODM. Get moving!”

Shadis flies past in his own ODM gear, and Jean curses again. He tries to right himself, only to fall a few feet further toward the ground.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hisses, and then suddenly he’s facing right side up, and Marco is hanging upside down, looking at him.

“What the hell are you? A spider?” he growls. Marco just grins.

“Hang onto me,” he says. Jean doesn’t have much choice, because he’s about to plummet to his death; he can’t get his ODM gear untangled, and so he does as asked.

He wraps both arms around Marco, and lets his wires fly back into the pack. Marco slowly (and easily, much to Jean’s personal annoyance) hoists them up to a large tree branch so Jean can stand on his own.

“You’re going to get in trouble if you fall behind,” Jean grumbles in embarrassment, looking down in shame at the ground far below them.

“You know what you’re doing wrong?” Marco asks.

“I’ll figure it out, _Bodt,_ ” Jean retorts, calling Marco by his last name venomously.

In the last six months since they’ve become friends, he’s never called Marco by his last name. Unsurprisingly, Marco appears unperturbed.

“Stop being a baby and let me show you,” he says.

Jean sputters, but he can’t help but be tempted. At least Marco isn’t here to show him up.

“All right,” he says after a tense moment, “fine.”

“You’re trying too hard to get ahead of the ODM before it even attaches to the tree,” Marco says. “You have to let them lead you.”

“But I’m controlling them,” Jean argues, confused. It’s not that he’s going to insist he’s right when he’s obviously failing, but he’s getting frustrated again.

“You can’t manhandle them into obeying you,” Marco says. “Watch.”

He shoots out one of his wires and glides through the air effortless; but his body is totally relaxed, and his back arches slightly until he hits the next surface and goes in that direction. It’s like he’s flying.

“Hmph,” Jean mutters, but he sees now what he’s doing wrong.

He gives it a try, and Marco’s right. He just has to glide, and not use his strength to overpower his own gear.

“See!” Marco says in delight. “Now you’re going faster than me!”

They shoot through the forest together, and Jean speeds up a little, immediately acclimating to the new technique.

He gives Marco a sidelong look, and mutters, “Thanks,” before leaving him behind to catch up with the rest of the squad.

= = =

Now that Jean has realized what he was doing wrong, he decides to catch up with missed time and trains well into the evening. He could get in trouble if he gets caught, but he gets so far out into the forest some nights, and gear check-in is so late, he gets away with it.

Once he feels like he’s caught up, he decides to take it up a notch, and start training double-time. Marco notices that Jean leaves dinner every night early, but he doesn’t comment, leaving him to his business.

They sit together _every_ night now, and Jean has grown accustomed to having Marco as part of his routine. He’s actually a welcome presence, and no matter what Jean says to him, or how many times he tries to attack Eren, Marco is infinitely patient.

And Jean likes him. He hasn’t had a real friend for a long time, and he doesn’t see any harm in making one now, as long as he doesn’t get _too_ comfortable.

In his darker moments, Jean thinks about the reasons why he’s trying to get into the Military Police. He thinks of the Titans, of being poor, of being sent out to reclaim Wall Maria—any number of nightmare guaranteed-death scenarios—and he remembers every day why he chose this life. He just has to get through this training, make the top ten, and go to the interior. That’s it. He’s so close, and now with his skill at ODM, he knows it’s only a matter of time as long as he stays on top of his game.

Worst case scenario, Jean always thought he’d get eaten by a Titan if he didn’t succeed.

He’s not expecting a case of the sniffles after a long, late night of nimbly swinging through trees in the rain to bring him down.

= = =

"Now look right into my eyes, and say once again that you didn't catch a cold in the forest."

Jean sniffles as if right on cue, and Marco’s eyes narrow further.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he groans, rolling his eyes. He taps his spoon despondently against the beat up tin tray and looks down at his dinner; suddenly, it seems less than appetizing. He can feel Marco watching him carefully, and he scowls.

“Not hungry?” Marco asks.

Jean pushes the tin of food away and sets his jaw. “Not tonight.”

Within two hours, Jean has a fever and he’s been removed from the communal bunks to the sick house.

= = =

Everything is a blur after that, and Jean swears his eyelids are stuck together. When he does manage to open them, the sunlight pouring through the window is so harsh, he groans and tries to roll over. The motion makes his head pound and he groans, but there’s no one there.

“Are you kidding me?” he murmurs miserably to himself. “What the hell?! Am I just supposed to die here?”

The door swings open, and he hears a familiar voice. “You’re awake!”

Jean puts his hand over his face, groaning, and then pulls it away in disgust. He’s sweaty and dirty, his mouth feels like it’s full of sour glue, and he feels sick—just _ill_ in every way possible.

Suddenly, there’s a weight on the edge of the mattress, and he feels a cool glass pressed to his lips and a little water wet them. “C’mon,” says a gentle voice, “try to sit up and drink a little water.”

He keeps his eyes closed as the kind soul helps him sit up, and even though Jean feels like he’s going to throw up from the vertigo and the pounding in his head, he manages to clutch the glass in a shaky hand and suck it down without stopping.

“Marco?” he croaks, cracking an eye open.

Marco is looking at him in great concern, and it suddenly dawns on Jean how sick he is. “Shit,” he murmurs, his voice rough from disuse and a sore throat, “how long have I been out?”

“A day.”

“ _What_?”

“You’ve been asleep.”

“I missed an entire day of training?” he gasps in horror, scowling, and then starts to cough.

“You’re going to miss more. You’re really sick, Jean. You pushed yourself too much.”

Jean grumbles, but doesn’t protest when Marco helps him lie back down. “I’m going to help you get better,” he says resolutely.

Jean is about tell Marco why he doesn’t need any help, when he feels dizzy. “Can you...” he rasps, “close the curtains?”

Marco immediately stands up and draws the thin, burlap curtains closed, and Jean sighs in relief. He keeps his eyes closed, not finding the strength to open them again; he feels like _shit_.

He doesn’t even protest as a blessedly cool, damp cloth is pressed to his forehead, and then placed over his eyes. He sighs in relief, not even trying to pretend he doesn’t appreciate it.

“I’ll be back at dinner time, okay? Just try to rest.”

Jean is fully intending to tell Marco he can get up if he just has a few more minutes, when he finds himself curled on his side.

The cloth has fallen off his eyes, dry and lying next to him on the pillow, and he’s shivering. Even though it’s June and pleasantly warm outside, he can’t stop his teeth from chattering.

As if right on cue, the door opens again, and Marco appears with a plate of food. Jean looks up at him, blinking in confusion, and Marco sets the plate down and faces him with a worried look.

“Is-is that f-for me?” he says, trying to stop the shivering. He’s not even _cold_ , so much as trembling and achy.

“Yeah,” Marco says, taking the plate and sitting down at the bedside. “Can you hold a spoon?”

“Of c-course I can hold a goddamn s-spoon,” Jean chatters, holding out his very shaky hand. Marco gives him a skeptical look, but he lets Jean attempt to maneuver his own meal into his mouth. He succeeds, but halfway through, he can’t eat anymore.

“I’m good,” he says, lying back down and huddling under the blankets. “You don’t have to take care of me like I’m a ch-child,” he says.

Marco shushes him, and unexpectedly, moves to unbuckle his harness, shrugs off his jacket, and kicks off his shoes to crawl in next to Jean and pulls the blankets up over both of them.

“Just be quiet and close your eyes,” he says soothingly, wrapping his arms around Jean and pulling him close.

Jean doesn’t even pretend to resist and huddles against Marco’s chest, still shivering. “You’re g-going to get sick,” he manages to say. He also doesn’t resist when Marco strokes his hair; it feels too good, much better than anything else Jean has felt lately.

“I don’t get sick,” Marco replies simply.

“I haven’t washed up in like a day,” Jean warns, even though he’s already half asleep.

“More like three,” Marco corrects, rubbing his hand along Jean’s back. “Feel warmer now?”

“Yeah,” Jean sighs, his face pressed against Marco’s chest. He smells good, and familiar.

He doesn’t want to ask Marco to stay with him, but he doesn’t need to; he falls asleep like that. He wakes up once, in the middle of the night, and Marco is still there, sleeping soundly.

Jean fumbles for the water left next to the bed for him, and then settles down again, nestling against Marco.

When he wakes up the next morning, though, the sun peeking through the window, Marco is gone.

= = =

Finally, Jean’s fever breaks, and he wakes up in a cold sweat, blinking.

He doesn’t know how many days it’s been,  but he’s starting to sense something is wrong. It’s when he hears Shadis talking to someone outside the door that he realizes what’s going on.

“If he’s not better in a few days, we can’t keep going this way. It’s a waste.”

“He’ll be fine,” says what Jean recognizes as Marco’s voice. “Just leave it to me.”

“Then you can to cover his assignments, too. You’re on kitchen _and_ bunk cleaning duty.”

“Okay.”

There’s a pause, but then apparently approval, because Marco says thank you. Then there’s the sound of heavy footsteps walking away, and the door squeaks open quietly.

Jean keeps his eyes closed as Marco pokes his head in. “Jean?” he asks softly.

“Hi,” Jean says groggily. “Think my fever broke.”

“Good,” Marco says enthusiastically. “Here. I want you to chew this. It’ll help with your headache.”

“What is it?”

“Willow bark,” Marco replies, producing a small piece of tree bark. “It’ll stop your head from pounding and make you feel better.”

Jean normally would question chewing on part of a tree, but he trusts Marco, so he just shrugs and puts it in his mouth. It’s woody, and kind of gross, but he doesn’t complain.

Marco sits down on the edge of the bed, and Jean suddenly notices the dark circles under his eyes.

“You don’t have to look out for me,” he mumbles around the bark, and Marco laughs a little.

“That’s what friends are for, Jean,” he says good naturedly. He’s in his regular clothes, out of uniform, and Jean realizes it’s the evening. He lost track of time a few days before, and everything stopped making sense in between sleeping. Without the fever, though, it’s a little easier to have some sense of context.

Marco’s wearing his same tunic he always wears, and from this distance, Jean suddenly realizes it’s made from burlap. It’s the material they use for potato sacks, only it’s been modified and prettied up, made to look as though it’s a different fabric with some fancy embroidering and stitching.

He’s looking at Jean closely, and Jean meets his eyes.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

Marco smiles and shakes his head. “No problem. I hate to tell you, but it’s probably best if you go back to sleep. It’ll help you get better faster.”

Jean groans and puts his arm over his face, only to realize how bad he smells.

“Um,” he says, biting his lip and taking the bark out of his mouth, “is there anyone in the washroom?”

“I don’t think so. It’s pretty late,” Marco says, tilting his head to the side. “You wanna get cleaned up?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Jean replies with a sigh. “I’m gross.”

“Okay,” Marco nods. “You haven’t stood up in a few days, so just take it easy.”

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes, and sits up quickly.

Marco winces as Jean immediately closes his eyes and makes a sound of distress.

“Don’t _push_ yourself, Jean,” he says in a stern tone. “You’re not doing yourself any favors.”

Jean doesn’t protest when he feels Marco help balance him, and then slowly swings his legs over the edge of bed. Much to his relief, he’s wearing a full ensemble of clothes so he doesn’t have to change, even if they’re a little sweaty.

They make their way slowly to the washroom—thankfully, it’s not too far. It’s cold and a little dark, but Marco’s brought along a few candles which he lights.

“Laundry owes me a favor,” he says mysteriously. “Be right back.”

Jean leans against the wall weakly as Marco disappears for a few minutes. The cement is rough and cold against his back where he’s leaning, and he feels suddenly very vulnerable without Marco there to help him. He runs his hands along his own ribs, and realizes he’s lost weight, too.

It’s the first time he realizes how sick he’s really been, and how close he’s come to getting kicked out. The only reason he didn’t is because of Marco.

Marco returns shortly, and much to Jean’s relief, bolts the door behind him. Jean’s eyes widen as he realizes that Marco’s carrying two buckets of steaming water replete with _soap_ , and Jean sighs in absolute bliss just looking at the combination.

“You have hot water? Are you god?” he asks as Marco hands him the soap. “I think you’re god.”

“Just a concerned bystander,” Marco quips as Jean shamelessly strips off his sweaty clothes. It’s a lot different from that first time they ran into each other in this same situation.

He turns away to scrub himself off with the soap, thanking Marco silently again for the fact that the water’s actually hot. Jean is in heaven as he cleans his skin and scrubs at his hair. He’s weak and can’t lift the bucket himself, but just having the water at all is more than enough.

“Want me to pour the clean one over you?” Marco asks easily. He knows Jean can’t do it himself, and Jean doesn’t even try to put up a front.

“That would be amazing,” he replies immediately. He still feels a _little_ awkward turning toward Marco, so he faces the wall, and actually moans a little as a steady stream of hot water pours over his body. The stiffness in his muscles  has dissipated somewhat, and he sighs contentedly.

“Want me to wash your back? There’s still half the bucket left, but it’s going to get cold.”

“Mhm,” Jean hums. He doesn’t even think about it. A year ago, he would’ve balked; now, he’s grateful.

Marco’s touch is still just as surprisingly gentle as it’s always been; intoxicating, actually. He works the soap over Jean’s slick back, pressing into the muscles a little as an added bonus, and Jean groans. He’s almost sorry when it ends, although the stream of warm water rinsing off the soap is also sheer bliss.

Marco’s even brought a change of clothes for him, and Jean slips on the clean pants and shirt gratefully.

“Does everyone think I’m dead?” he asks wryly as they make their way back to the small sick cabin.

“Eren says he’s hoping, but I don’t think he means it.”

Jean snorts dismissively, and coughs a little.

“Ready to go back to bed?”

“Ugh, do I have to?”

“You’re still sick.” Marco feels Jean’s forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re a little warm, too, and you’re going to relapse if you exert yourself too much.”

 When they go back into the hated sick room, Jean starts to blush furiously when Marco moves to strip the dirty sheets off the bed.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says in embarrassment.

“Well, they’re sweaty, right?”

“Um, yeah,” Jean replies, biting his lip and standing off to the side awkwardly as Marco unfolds a sheet and unfurls it across the bare, thin mattress. “Where did you get an extra pair of sheets, anyway?”

Marco just shrugs a little, not answering, as he tucks the corners in neatly. They’re perfect corners, even though Marco does them quickly; he’s thinking about something else, but his hands work easily, like he’s done it a million times.

“Are those...” Jean is blushing. He can feel it, and it has nothing to do with having a fever. “Are those _your_ sheets?”

Marco clears his throat and laughs dismissively. “Why would you think that?”

 “Are you sleeping on a bare mattress without sheets?” Jean asks in shock.

“There aren’t a lot of extras to go around,” Marco says logically, shrugging. “Now stop complaining and get back to bed.”

Jean snaps his mouth shut, blinking at Marco, and Marco just looks at him. He raises his eyebrow with that same mother hen expression he used before, and Jean feels his resolve crumble.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “And, uh... thanks.”

“No problem,” Marco replies good-naturedly. “I have a lot of siblings. It just comes naturally.”

Jean lies down, feeling foolish and embarrassed, but he rapidly forgets once he’s comfortably cocooned in clean clothes and fresh sheets.

“Still have a headache?”

“A little,” Jean admits, blinking sleepily. “That bark actually helped, though.”

“Roll over,” Marco replies simply, not elaborating further.

Jean has no idea what to expect, so he simply does as asked; then he tenses when he feels Marco’s hands on his neck, his thumbs gently massaging at the base of his skull.

Surprise melts away as soon as Marco starts to rub Jean’s neck and shoulders; it is officially _the most_ blissful thing Jean has _ever_ felt.

“Try to relax,” Marco says softly. “This will make you feel a lot better.”

Jean is practically drooling, and he lets out a vague sound of understanding. His headache is fast becoming a memory, and his achy body is very happy right now.

“Thanks,” he slurs, and then drops off to sleep, the reassuring feeling of Marco’s hands—warm and strong—the last thing he remembers.

= = =

When Jean’s eyes flutter open again, he’s rather resentful of waking up, because he’s been having the most satisfying dream. It’s simply that Marco never stopped massaging his shoulders, and Jean has just enjoyed—if only in a dream—a good, solid eight hours of Marco Bodt giving him the most thorough rubdown of his life.

Jean very carefully edges around the fact in his mind that he’s now also woken up with the world’s most massive erection.

Nevertheless, he can’t help himself—it’s been a while—and he reaches under the sheets to stroke himself a little. It feels good, so he closes his eyes and relaxes into it, speeding up a little, but keeps the motions of his hand even and steady.

Normally he jerks off thinking about Mikasa, although those fantasies are usually just Mikasa flinging herself at him in rapture instead of agreeing with Eren—that prick—that she’ll cut off her hair that Jean had just complimented her five seconds before.

In reality, Jean honestly can’t even picture kissing Mikasa, much less doing anything particularly dirty. (Jean effectively gets off to having his ego stroked.)

The truth is, though, that Jean doesn’t have a lot of experience with this—namely, other people touching him or being close. He’s had his few encounters, but mostly just awkward groping. Summers spent in Trost with local girls after nicking cheap alcohol from merchants passing through town, and then lazing about in the summer sun, getting teenage-drunk.

However, nice as it feels, he’s starting to get frustrated. Jerking off feels good, but he wants to come and it’s just not happening. He knows exactly what he wants to picture, so he finally gives in.

He closes his eyes and thinks of Marco, rubbing at his neck and murmuring at him to relax. Marco’s calm voice, reassuring touch, warmth and presence and smell...

Jean’s back arches and his mouth opens in a silent cry as he comes hard, his hips jerking with the orgasm.

He cracks an eye open, and to his own mortification, he’s blushing.

He just jerked off thinking about Marco and made _himself_ blush.

Jean really hates himself sometimes, and puts the whole thing out of his mind. He cleans up as best he can, and then falls asleep again; it’s easier since he’s sated from a very satisfying orgasm, but he still forces Marco out of his mind.

He wakes up again to the sky at twilight, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a hand against his forehead.

He looks over in panic, and Marco raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry,” he says, drawing away, “I was just checking your temperature. Did you have a nightmare or something?”

“No,” Jean blurts out. “You just... startled me.”

“Oh, sorry,” Marco replies with a shrug, apparently not paying Jean’s strange reaction any further attention. “You hungry?”

“Yes,” Jean says, his eyes wide. The promise of food really does chase everything out of his mind, because he’s just registered how starving he actually is.

“Here,” Marco says, smiling a little and taking a seat in the crude, rough-hewn wooden chair next to the bed. “Dinner.”

There’s something that smells particularly appealing about dinner tonight, but Jean is relatively sure it’s because he can’t remember the last time he ate a full meal.

The first bite, though, confirms that something magical has happened to their protein-packed gruel.

He looks up at Marco, who’s watching him with an expectant expression. “Did they actually feed us something edible?” he asks in amazement.

“Do you like it?” Marco asks, a smile blooming on his face.

“Yeah,” Jean says, his eyes closing as he savors the next bite. There’s some sort of actual meat in it, and he hasn’t had a meal like this since before he joined the squad as a trainee. “What is it?”

“Oh,” Marco replies, looking down with a slight blush, his former enthusiasm suddenly turned to shyness. “I’m just glad you like it. It wasn’t for everyone.”

Jean presses his memory to identify the taste and texture, and then finally remembers. “Is this... rabbit?”

“Yeah,” Marco says, giving a sheepish little smile. “Um, I caught it and cooked it, and added it in. I thought you could use a little extra perk in the food department, to help you get well.”

Jean just stares at him, and Marco’s blush intensifies. “Just trying to help. I’m glad you like it. No big deal.”

“You _hunted_ a rabbit for me?”

“Um, yeah, pretty much.”

Jean doesn’t even know what to say. Finally, he says the logical thing. “Thanks.”

Marco looks up with a silly little grin, and Jean feels an unfamiliar emotion rise in him. He also identifies it after a moment as gratitude.

“I really appreciate it,” he adds for extra emphasis. “I’ll pay you back.”

“You don’t have to pay me back,” Marco says, a shadow coming over his face. Jean bites his lip, knowing he said the wrong thing. “I did it because I’m your friend, Jean, and you could use a boost because you’ve been as sick as a dog.”

Jean snorts, but smiles at Marco as he finishes the meal in four massive, enthusiastic bites. “I’m not sick anymore,” he says through the last bite, chewing enthusiastically. “Thanks to you.”

“I just gave you water and brought you food,” Marco laughs a little. “You’re just really good at getting better, like everything else.”

“Yeah,” Jean says teasingly, putting the tin plate down on the rough table next to the bed, “but you’re the one who apparently ‘never gets sick.’”

Marco shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s true.” He studies Jean for a second as Jean takes a long sip of the water next to the bed. “So you’re really feeling better?”

Jean nods enthusiastically, although he knows he needs at least one more day’s rest the way his vision swims slightly. Too much head movement.

“Um,” he says awkwardly, “are you going to bed now?”

“Probably,” Marco says, standing up to stretch and yawn sleepily. “Today was hard. We ran five miles and then came back to do some more ODM training.”

“And then you had double kitchen and bunk duty,” Jean adds quietly, “right?”

Marco’s face turns properly red now that he realizes Jean knows that he took on extra work, and he clears his throat. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

Jean studies him, and suddenly realizes how tired he looks. In fact, he has circles under his eyes and he’s slumped a little, obviously exhausted.

“Wait,” Jean says, not able to stop the words from coming out of his mouth, “lie down here for a little while.”

Marco’s dark eyes widen and he looks like a deer who just caught sight of a hunter. In fact, now that Jean notices, Marco’s eyes do look like a deer’s—dark, earnest, alert. It’s just the way he looks when he’s serious, which isn’t all the time, but right now he has the look. Jean doesn’t understand why, but he also doesn’t relent in his request, moving over in the narrow bed to make room for Marco.

After a moment, Marco finally shrugs, casting a look at the door that’s closed. He’s out of uniform, so it’s easy for him to kick his shoes off and just lie down, not having to struggle out of complicated gear and boots.

He lies down on his back next to Jean and turns his head expectantly, awaiting further instructions. When Jean doesn’t provide any, he finally asks, “Did you just want me to... go to sleep? I can keep you warm again if you want, if you’re cold.”

“No,” Jean says abruptly. This is one of the few times he wishes he had more tact, but he can’t help the way he talks. He’s always been this way. “Um, just roll over.”

Marco obeys without question, rolling onto his side with his back to Jean, and then he gasps when Jean starts to rub his shoulders gently.

“You’re tired,” Jean says reasonably, his voice frank but placid, “and worn out.”

Marco makes a noise that sounds like a protest, but he’s already falling to pleasured pieces under the ministrations of Jean’s fingers.

Jean is fascinated by the way Marco’s body feels—he’s a little more broad-shouldered than Jean, although not by much. He’s definitely taller, but Jean can tell he has the same kind of grace as a deer—long legs that could be clumsy, but used the right way, are actually graceful.

It’s already been made clear, though, that Marco’s talent isn’t with combat, but with people. And that’s where Marco stops being the deer, and starts being unclassifiable.

“Mm,” he hums, “that feels good, Jean.”

He doesn’t even deny how tired he is, and Jean tugs at his shirt. “Take this off?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and just sits up to pull the tunic over his head and neatly fold it, placing it on the chair, and lies back down.

Jean just stares at his back now. Marco’s shoulders are peppered with freckles and they’re strong, the indents of the straps still making their marks. Now that they’ve gotten used to the ODM gear, though, the marks are just residual and no longer bruises.

Jean starts there, because he knows that after a hard day of training, even for people good at using the ODM—himself included—shoulders get achy.

“Oh _god_ ,” Marco moans as Jean presses his thumbs there, circling gently. “That feels _so_ good.”

Jean laughs a little under his breath, and Marco echoes him with a lazy sound.

“I...” He stops before he says his default line about paying people back. That’s usually how Jean thinks of the world: debts and balances. But Marco did all of this for him because they’re friends, because he cares. “I really appreciate when you did it for me.”

Marco has snuggled into Jean’s pillow where he’s stolen half of it, and he’s fast becoming very comfortable in the bed with Jean.

Jean moves down to his shoulder blades, over the middle and small of his back, even down to his hips and back up. He gets to touch Marco all over, and finds that at the end, he didn’t even realize how much he wanted to.

At this point, Marco is practically purring and Jean rests his hand at Marco’s waist. “You can stay if you want,” he says simply.

Marco slowly rolls back over to look at Jean, and they stare at each other.

“Well,” he says after a moment, “it does beat the bunks, considering Connie snores like a Titan and I’m already here.”

Jean laughs and settles into the blankets, offering Marco half of them.

He rubs Marco’s shoulders until he falls asleep, and the tunic remains neatly folded on the chair. The next morning, Jean is almost hoping to awaken in a tangle of limbs, but no such luck. Marco’s gone, but the place next to Jean is still warm.

He shamelessly snuggles into it, inhaling deeply.

It’s at that moment that Jean realizes he’s in over his head.

= = =

This time, when Jean wakes up, he feels refreshed.

“Kirschstein,” comes a harsh voice and two short, harsh claps through the door. “Get up!”

Jean swings out of bed—happy to leave it behind—and stretches his arms, blinking heavily.

“Bring those sheets down to the laundry and then go to breakfast.”

Jean does as asked, dropping off the sick sheets in the laundry room downstairs. There are huge vats of boiling water and workers scrubbing a never-ending stream of linens and uniforms. He’s reminded once again of why he wants to join the Military Police.

After a quick check into the washroom where there’s a cold bucket of water waiting for him and a change of clothes into the crisp, starched uniform (freshly laundered and lying on his bunk), he heads to breakfast.

As soon as he enters the communal dining hall, he sees Marco waving at him, a big smile on his face. Jean smiles, too, and strides over without even glancing at anyone else.

“Saved you bread. They almost ran out, but eat it now, because Sasha’s staring at you.”

Sasha is indeed staring at Jean’s untouched plate like a hungry wolf, her eyes glazed over with the potential for an extra meal.

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes, and inhales breakfast.

“So,” Marco says conversationally, still picking at his own breakfast, “you ready for your first day back? We have equestrian training today.”

 _“Horse_ training?” Jean asks in surprise, still chewing the last of his bread. “Oh yeah, right. I guess I knew that was coming.”

“It’s going to be a lot different than ODM.”

“Yeah,” Jean says, raising an eyebrow, “they’re... _horses_.”

There’s a sudden stinging flick of fingers against his shoulder, and he twists in surprise, his body already tensing like a startled cat.

“Maybe you can meet your future wife today, horse face,” Eren says as he walks away. “Live a comfortable, cowardly life together in the interior.”

Marco’s already got two arms around Jean before he can cover the five feet between him and Eren, hissing and spitting.

Eren’s glaring at him, his shoulders stiff, and his pupils dilated. Armin comes to stand next to him and grab Eren by the shoulder gently, pulling him back.

“Nice to see you’re feeling better, Jean,” Armin says, his eyes wide.

Jean scowls at him, but finally relents once Eren walks out of the dining hall with Mikasa and Armin.

He feels a swat on his arm, and he turns to look at Marco.

“You know you’ll get kicked out for fighting,” he says, looking at Jean sternly.

Jean scowls at Marco, too, but Marco doesn’t flinch. Finally, he rolls his eyes and lets out of an angry huff of breath, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Screw Yeager,” he murmurs. “Moron.”

Marco leads him back to the table, and it’s only a few minutes until Jean’s talking with him normally again.

“Have you ever ridden a horse? Marco asks curiously as they take their plates to dump them in the wash bin.

“Um, no,” Jean replies. “How hard can it be?”

= = =

“Jean? Jean!”

Marco is running at him, and Jean thinks for a moment that the sky is far bluer than he ever noticed.

“Are you okay?” he exclaims.

Jean notices suddenly that there are a few other trainees staring down at him, and even Eren looks shocked.

“What happened?” he blinks in a daze. “Why am I lying on the ground?”

“You got thrown!” Marco exclaims. “You’re okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jean replies, gingerly sitting up. “Nothing is broken. _Shit_.”

Once Jean curses and sits up, Eren makes a dismissive, mocking sound, and the rest of the crowd disperses.

“That was a bad fall,” Marco says, his eyes wide.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Jean grumbles, rubbing the back of his head. “Why did he throw me?”

The horse that had thrown Jean is eyeing him warily, whinnying as he backs up.

Jean stands up and gesticulates at the horse. “ _You’re_ pissed off?” he exclaims angrily. “You just threw me on my ass, you jerk!”

The horse rears up and gives an angry snort.

Marco immediately steps in between them and pushes Jean back. “Step back about ten feet,” he says. “You’re going to get hit in the face with some hooves in a second.”

Jean mutters the entire time, but watches in fascination as Marco murmurs something to the horse, and is given the leeway to grab the reins. The horse gives a defeated little nickering sound, and then lets Marco stroke its silky mane.

“Are kidding me?” Jean groans.

“Having a hard time with your wife, Kirschstein?” comes a mocking voice.

“Don’t get into a fight,” Marco warns. “Then this horse will _never_ trust you.”

Jean grits his teeth and glares at Eren. “Shut the hell up.”

Eren is about to retort, when suddenly his horse rears up and almost hits him in the face, kicking up a cloud of dust that makes both of them cough.

Jean is surprised when, instead of getting angry, Eren actually looks sorry for upsetting his own horse.

“Sorry,” Eren murmurs, approaching the horse carefully, “uh, I know you’re protective of _your own kind_.” He glares at Jean, but now Jean just rolls his eyes.

Even Eren’s horse lets him back up into the saddle, calming down, and he rides away.

Jean’s horse, on the other hand, is still standing with Marco, and as soon as Jean steps forward, he whinnies hysterically.

“You spooked him by being nervous, Jean,” Marco says, cringing. “You’re probably not going to get anywhere today.”

“Bodt’s right, you moron,” Shadis yells. “Kirschstein, go trade bunk duty with Bodt. Bodt, you take his horse back to the stable and feed and water him.”

Jean grumbles, feeling like an idiot as he walks away from Marco and his horse.

“Jean,” Marco calls unexpectedly, “meet me in the stable afterwards.”

Just to add insult to injury, Eren rides past triumphantly, calling at Jean, “You finally found a home, and it’s not the interior!”

Jean spits every curse he knows, but Eren is long gone.

= = =

After Jean sweeps up the bunks and finishes cleaning, he’s feeling particularly dejected. He doesn’t like failing at things, and he makes his way out to the stables with a scowl.

“Marco?” he asks, sticking his head into the door.

“Over here,” Marco says in a soft voice. “Walk over _slowly_.”

Jean frowns as he slowly walks over to the source of Marco’s voice, and sees that his horse is standing there, obviously enjoying being brushed and attended to by Marco, professional animal whisperer.

He gives a nervous whinny as soon as he sees Jean, and Marco shushes him.

“Here,” he says, tossing Jean a carrot,  “walk over from the side, give this to him over the stall. _Don’t_ frown.”

Jean edges toward the stall the horse is in, and offers the carrot from the front. He tries to smile a little, and apparently, this helps. The horse takes the carrot out of his hand and gnaws on it, his giant teeth snapping it in half.

Jean swallows hard. They’re a lot bigger than he first realized.

“You can’t _force_ him to do anything,” Marco remarks, still brushing the horse slowly. He opens the stable door and leads the horse out into the rampway, and a few of the other horses let out interested nickers.

“You want to brush him?”

“Are you sure he’s not going to bite my hand off?”

“Well,” Marco says, raising an eyebrow, “if you try to brush him like you were trying to ride him today, maybe.”

“So what do I do?” Jean demands in frustration, but then lowers his voice when he gets a nervous glance from the horse. “Um, what do I do?” he asks in a calmer voice.

“You’re going to take the brush,” Marco directs, and then runs his hand slowly and gently along Jean’s upper arm. “And brush him like that.”

 “Are you serious right now?” Jean asks skeptically, staring at Marco with a flat look.

“Do you want to learn to ride or not?” Marco retorts.

Jean heaves a long-suffering sigh; he doesn’t really have much of a choice.

“All right, fine,” he grumbles. “Show me again.”

“Okay,” Marco nods, his face determined. “You have to get him to trust you. Here, take the brush.”

Jean takes the brush, and the horse eyes both him and Marco skeptically. He’s obviously already disappointed that the _nice one_ is abandoning his ministrations.

“Now,” Marco directs, “go slowly and gently.”

He demonstrates on Jean’s arm again, his hand gentle and steady, as if he’s stroking him. Jean privately notes that it feels nice and calming, and then realizes he just thought of himself as a horse.

He frowns a little, but nods. “Okay, I get it. Is he going to kick me if he changes his mind, though?”

“Maybe,” Marco snorts, “so don’t be rough with him.”

It hangs unspoken in the air that Jean is rough with _everything_ , so he nods. “I’ll try.”

That earns an approving look, and Marco smiles a little. “You can do it, Jean. You just have to let him make up his own mind to trust you.”

Jean winces as he brings the brush to slowly sweep along the horse’s flank, trying desperately not to press too hard. To his delight, that earns him an appreciative nickering, and Marco nods his head in encouragement.

After a while, Jean is no longer nervous, and he’s brushing the horse easily.

“What’s his name?” he asks, and Marco laughs a little at his sudden interest.

“Um,” he says, craning his neck around to read the little nametag on the stall, “Buchwald?”

“That’s a stupid name,” Jean says. The horse looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and Jean’s eyebrows raise. “Um,” he stammers, “no, I mean, it’s a good name. It’s just... weird.”

Buchwald whinnies a little, and Jean shrugs. “You agree, then.”

He hears Marco laughing behind him, and he turns to frown. “What? It’s true.”

“Guess you made a new friend,” Marco replies, and Jean can’t help but smile.

“See?” he says to Marco, putting on his cocky grin. “I can be nurturing.”

Marco rolls his eyes, and Jean laughs a little.

They put Buchwald back in his stall, lock up the barn together, and Jean feels a sudden sense of calm.

The next day, when they continue the training, Jean only makes a few startled noises; Buchwald lets him stay in the saddle, though, and Marco watches with an approving smile.

Later that night, Jean is still excited about his newly forged friendship with Buchwald the horse.

“I’m glad I didn’t get thrown, but that kills your legs.”

They’re lingering around outside the bunks because it’s far too nice a night to be inside, and Jean looks over at Marco in the dim light. He’s looking out toward the mountains with a distracted look on his face.

“You get used to it,” Marco replies simply.

“You’ve ridden horses before?” Jean asks in surprise.

“It’s been a while,” he replies cryptically, and then finally senses Jean staring at him.

He looks over with a little smile, his freckles bunching up in that way that makes Jean’s heart beat a little faster nowadays, and shrugs.

Jean usually doesn’t press people for information, but now he’s curious, especially since Marco is usually so forthcoming about his thoughts.

“When?”

“Oh,” Marco replies, looking back out toward where the sun is setting behind the distant peaks, “back home, in Jinae. I taught my little sister to ride.”

“Oh,” Jean replies quietly, suddenly sobered by Marco’s quietude. “Um... do you miss it?”

“A little,” Marco says, but his voice is suddenly tense.

Jean realizes that “a little” probably means “I think about it all the time but I don’t want to burden anyone else with my troubles.”

“What’s it like there?” Jean asks conversationally, sitting down on the wooden steps. He tries to make it sound casual, but he’s actually extremely curious.

“Rural,” Marco says simply, but he sits down next to Jean. “Well, it’s not Trost. You know, there are lots of trees and fields.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It’s hard.”

“Yeah,” Jean says, looking down into his lap. “Is that why you want to join the Military Police?”

“I want to protect people,” Marco says with a sigh, his head in his hand. “I’m willing to die to protect humankind.”

Jean suddenly feels very foolish and self-centered about his own reasons for wanting to join the Military Police; Marco is the only one who can make him feel that way, and he doesn’t know whether that’s good or bad.

However, the thought of Marco dying suddenly makes his throat tighten, and an unexpected surge of emotions flood him.

“That’s dumb,” he says darkly, turning away.

“I know you think that,” Marco replies calmly, and then just shrugs.

“I just... why do you want to die?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level.

Marco looks over at him in surprise, cocking his head to the side. “I don’t _want_ to die,” he replies incredulously. “I want to protect people. If I die, then I die, but I’d _prefer_ to stay alive.”

Jean feels angry suddenly. He wants to hit Marco, shout at him, tell him how moronic he is and call him out on his warped, stupid worldview. The goddamn idiot.

Instead, he grasps Marco’s shoulder and says rather intensely, “Don’t die.”

Marco’s eyes widen, and then he places his own hand over Jean’s. “I’ll do my best. Maybe if you’re there, too, we can really make a difference. Watch out for each other.”

“Yeah,” Jean replies simply, and then pulls his hand back. He stares out at the mountaintops where Marco was looking. “Gonna be cold tonight.”

An hour later, Marco’s head is peeking over the top bunk to look down at Jean in the dark. “Tell me what Trost is like sometime?”

Jean nods, and huddles into the blankets, wishing Marco was there with him like before. He listens carefully to the breathing above him on the top bunk, and it lulls him to sleep.

= = =

Marco is probably the best-behaved trainee in the squad, and it finally pays off one day.

He’s being sent off to Trost on an errand as a special reward for basically not being an idiot and consistently avoiding stupid things like fighting, stealing food, or damaging ODM gear.

Shadis likes Marco for obvious reasons: he keeps the peace amongst the other trainees, and especially because he manages to keep Jean in line.

“So,” Marco says enthusiastically, combing his hair and donning a fresh, crisp uniform, “they told me I can bring someone on the trip to Trost today to help me carry back these extra sacks of grain. I asked if you could come since you know the city already.”

Jean blinks from where he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, strapping on his boots and gear. Marco turns to look at him, grinning, and then his excitement slowly fades as he sees Jean’s surprised look.

“Do you not want to come?” he asks hesitantly, his voice suddenly timid.

“No!” Jean says, standing up and almost hitting his head on the top bunk. “I just... haven’t been back in a while, but I’ll definitely go.”

“Great!” Marco says, good mood immediately returning.

They gear up their horses directly after breakfast and get ready to head out—Buchwald has taken to Jean now—since it’s a two hour ride to Trost.

“Now,” Shadis says, eyeing both of them suspiciously, although it’s mostly directed at Jean, “you’re to go, retrieve these extra supplies, and return immediately. Remember that you’re representing the 104th Squad Trainees in those uniforms, and if you do _anything_ —” he shakes his finger menacingly, his dark eyes squinting, “—anything at all to bring shame to the squad, you’re done. Off to the fields. Both of you. Understand?”

Marco looks very serious and is nodding his head; Jean puts on a cocky grin and tilts his hips.

“You picked the best trainees in the squad for the job,” he declares.

When Shadis gives them both a skeptical look, Marco plays along and slings his arm over Jean’s shoulder, putting a hand on his own hip and grinning widely.

“We’ll be fast,” he adds confidently.

Shadis just looks at them like they’re both insane, and then they both fall into salute at the same time.

“We’ll expect you back by sundown,” he says. “You’re dismissed.”

They trot off together, empty grain sacks stowed securely in their respective saddle bags, going at a leisurely pace.

“Is he nuts?” Jean grumbles about Shadis once they’re well away from camp, rolling his eyes. “What are we going to do? Eat the stupid grain ourselves? Run off into the woods with our precious grain to live there until old age?”

That gets a laugh out of Marco, and he shrugs. “I don’t know. Grain is worth more than gold these days, though.”

Jean makes a sound of acknowledgement and speeds up a little. “C’mon,” he says, suddenly feeling excited, “if we have time, I can show you all the good places around Trost. You like turnovers?”

Marco opens his mouth to probably reprimand Jean for his unproductive goal for the day, and Jean just grins at him. “You’re too slow,” he says, and then speeds Buchwald into a run. He hears Marco immediately speed up, too, the pounding of hooves right next to him as Marco easily catches up.

They go at a fast but steady pace, and Jean starts to enjoy himself. It’s sunny out, if not a little crisp, and the sky is wide and blue. It’s been a while since he thought about anything besides ODM gear and how much he wants to smash Eren Yaeger’s face in.

They pass lots of fields—hard toiling laborers working within their confines, tilling and plowing. It’s a quiet, enjoyable ride, and they don’t talk, watching the scenery in companionable silence.

After the second hour, the buildings start to get more dense, and they reach Trost proper.

“Do you know where the military stables are?” Marco asks distractedly. He’s preoccupied looking around Trost in fascination.

Jean feels excited suddenly about the opportunity to show Marco something he _doesn’t_ know anything about for once.

“Yeah,” Jean says immediately as they walk through the cobbled street, “follow me.”

They maneuver their horses into the military stable off a side street, and Jean dismounts, handing the reins to the stable boy and giving Buchwald a pat as he and Marco’s horse are led off to be fed, watered, and rested.

“Kirschstein and Bodt?”

They both salute, straight and rigid, as a man in a Garrison uniform approaches them.

“Do you know Trost at all, trainees?”

“I do, sir,” Jean says in a strong voice.

“You from here?”

“Yes,” Jean says, still locked into his salute, “I grew up in Trost.”

“Good,” the Garrison commander replies with a nod, and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Go to this address and tell them you’re picking up supplies for the military. They’ll be expecting you.”

Jean looks over at Marco, and he looks uncharacteristically rigid, his jaw tense and his fist balled so tight that his knuckles are white.

Jean realizes he’s nervous.

“Thank you, sir,” Jean concludes when Marco doesn’t say anything. He almost seems to be holding his breath.

Once the man turns away, Jean looks over at Marco with a raised eyebrow; he’s still saluting, his face frozen.

“Um,” he says, relaxing from the salute and tapping Marco on the shoulder, “are you going to stay that way forever?”

Marco’s face is red, and he slowly drops his hand to look at Jean.

“I’ve never been to a city like this,” he says, looking embarrassed.

Jean smiles at him reassuringly. “C’mon,” he says, putting both hands on his hips, “it’ll be great. I’ll show you around, even if we don’t have that much time. Yeah?”

Marco looks at him warily, but nods slowly. “All right.”

“Why are you so nervous?”

Marco looks around self-consciously as they walk out into the street. “I don’t know,” he says.

“Loosen up!” Jean says enthusiastically. “This is going to be great. We have one day where we don’t have to worry about running five miles in the rain, right?”

That seems to left Marco’s spirits a little, and he nods, looking intrigued. “That’s true. Um, I guess you’re the best guide I could have.”

“Damn straight,” Jean nods, clapping Marco on the shoulder. “How about some of the best food Trost has to offer?”

“Okay,” Marco says, smiling a little.

Jean finds that Trost is mostly unchanged—all the same vendors selling their wares, shop fronts filled with merchandise, a strange mix of highbrow and ordinary people browsing the selections.

“So this,” he says, pointing up at a small restaurant, “has really good turnovers. They make them with actual meat.”

“Do you have any _money_?” Marco asks, raising his eyebrows.

Jean wiggles his fingers with a sly smile, and upstanding Marco looks scandalized.

“Watch,” he says easily, going to stand where the front of the shop is open. It’s made of hand-hewn stone walls, and there’s a large grill behind a wide counter.

He waits patiently, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

A tray slides out, and with a quick glance around, he smoothly grabs the two turnovers off it and slips them under his jacket.

Marco’s mouth is hanging open, and for a minute, Jean thinks he’s actually going to say no.

“Those look _amazing_ ,” he murmurs. “But you _stole_ them.”

“Hey,” Jean says easily, “Trost owes me a few favors. Okay?”

Marco raises his eyebrows, but he finally nods.

“All right,” he says, and Jean swears it’s because Marco can smell the turnovers. “I’ll take you at your word, but only this once.”

Jean grins, nodding. “Okay, deal.”

They eat the lamb and onion turnovers around the corner where no one can see them, and Jean grins over at Marco.

He feels like he’s 13 again—although scavenging for food at 13 wasn’t exactly the greatest—and Marco smiles back at him.

It’s surreal, suddenly, to have someone with him here; to have a friend who’s watching out for him.

Marco leans against the wall, and he looks younger suddenly, smiling at Jean without a single reservation. He always smiles that way, and Jean feels his heart beat a little faster.

“So what do you want to do?” Jean asks. “We have about half an hour before we get in trouble for dawdling, so...”

“This is going to sound stupid,” Marco says haltingly, “but um... can we just look around?” Jean watches for a moment, and Marco’s eyes are everywhere all at once—staring up at open shutters, then drawn to the steam of a grill, then over to a dog that’s barking with its well-dressed owner.

“Wait!” he exclaims, holding up his hand as if he’s getting more eager the more he talks. “What’s the _tallest_ building here? Can you show me that?”

He looks over at Jean in excitement, his eyebrows raised, and Jean just stares at him. His eyes are bright and wide, he’s smiling a little, and he looks so excited to be here.

“I’m really glad we got to come here!” he says.

 _We_.

Jean smiles, too. “So am I.”

He takes Marco to see the clock tower in the center of town first. He doesn’t know if it’s the _tallest_ building, but it’s tall enough that Marco just stares up at it in fascination. It strikes the hour with a deafening, deep _clang_ , and he jumps in surprise; then looks at Jean and laughs.

They walk through the streets, just looking around, and Jean takes him through all the familiar side streets he remembers.

Over time—between Marco chattering excitedly about all the things he’s seeing and how good everything smells and how it’s really weird that people own animals that live indoors—Jean doesn’t quite keep track of what he’s doing.

He’s laughing at something Marco said, telling a story about how he had to outrun a baker once after stealing a cake, and it happens.

Jean takes Marco’s hand.

He just reaches out and holds it, like he’s with his goddamn girlfriend, and it’s like being burned.

He stops abruptly in the street and jerks away, realizing what he did, and almost runs into someone.

“ _Watch_ it,” says an offended man who’s dressed in an elaborate suit, no doubt from the interior on some errand.

“Jean, wait,” Marco says with wide eyes, following him as Jean backs away until he hits a wall.

“Let’s just go and get the damn rations and get out of here,” Jean grunts, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

Marco just looks at him, and Jean realizes that he’s not repulsed.

“You’re such an idiot sometimes,” Marco murmurs, and pulls Jean around the corner into the alley.

Marco kissing him is quite possibly the best thing Jean has ever felt; Marco running his hands down to Jean’s hips and gripping them, pulling him forward, is even better.

The rough wall behind his back, the little sounds Marco’s making in his throat, and the warmth of his body, finally break Jean’s resolve.

He wraps both arms around Marco, rocking his hips forward as they kiss desperately, clumsily trying to figure out where to touch each other. Marco’s hand skitters crazily over Jean’s waist, up to his shoulder and then down to the small of his back, and then Jean moans when Marco grasps his ass.

They break apart, and Jean is panting. “ _Shit,_ ” he moans as Marco moves to kiss and bite at his neck feverishly, “Marco, _oh god...”_

When Marco moves up to lick at Jean’s ear, bite at the lobe and kiss just below it, Jean’s back arches and he shudders.

“Feels good here?” Marco says in a hot whoosh of breath.

There’s something about the way that Marco doesn’t hesitate that makes Jean think he knows what he’s doing, that this isn’t nearly as new to Marco as it is to Jean.

“Yeah,” he exhales, not caring for once in his life that he’s the less knowledgeable one.

Marco bites and licks and nips at his ear until Jean is trembling, and then slows down, pressing his face against Jean’s neck and stroking his back.

“Will you kiss me again?” Marco murmurs, and Jean realizes he sounds suddenly shy.

Jean draws back and immediately kisses him. He goes slower now, taking the time to slide his fingers up through Marco’s hair. It’s soft, and Marco seems to like that, so Jean strokes his fingers there.

They kiss for what seems like a long time, until Marco is whimpering, and Jean is so turned on he’s afraid he’s going to come in his damn uniform if they don’t stop.

They finally break apart, but Marco just rests his head against Jean’s shoulder, his face pressed against Jean’s neck as they lean against each other. Jean continues to embrace him, and they don’t speak.

“It’s starting to rain,” he says softly after a moment, and pulls away.

To his surprise, though, Marco doesn’t budge. When he looks up at Jean, his eyes are fearful, and Jean swears his heart breaks. He never wants Marco to look at him that way again.

“I’m sorry,” Marco breathes unexpectedly. Jean blinks in surprise.

“Why are you _sorry_?” he asks incredulously. “That was...” he’s starting to blush, “that was... _amazing_.”

Marco finally looks up at him shyly. “I know you’re not interested in that,” he says softly anyway, regardless of Jean’s statement. “I mean, not with... guys.”

“How do you know?” Jean blurts out. “I’m the one that just tried to hold your damn hand.”

Marco blinks, and Jean blinks, and then they both just stare at each other.

Marco still looks hesitant, though, and Jean forces out the words. “I, uh...” he says, looking down and rubbing the toe of his boot on the ground self-consciously. “It feels really good when you touch me.”

Marco is blushing almost as brightly as Jean now, and he looks shocked.

“When I was sick?” Jean continues softly, not wanting to lose the momentum, or else he knows he’ll just stop talking, and Marco needs to hear this. “And you rubbed my shoulders? That felt better than anything I’ve ever felt.”

“It did?” Marco squeaks.

“Yeah,” Jean answers simply.

“So you want, um...” Marco circles his finger toward their mouths, “ _that_ to happen again?”

“Well, yeah,” Jean replies, biting his lip, “if you want it to.”

“Yeah,” Marco whispers, staring at the ground. He looks so dejected and nervous, regardless of Jean’s reassurance, that Jean can’t help but reach out and take his hand.

“It’s you and me,” he says softly, “against the world. You’re my best friend.”

Marco tightens his hand around Jean’s, and he finally smiles a little. “Well, I don’t feel like the world is against me, but I like the sound of ‘you and me.’”

Jean laughs a little, and tightens his hand around Marco’s. “We’ll come back here one day,” he says, “when we join the Military Police.”

It’s starting to rain steadily now, and he pulls Marco under the eve of the building and into his arms, sliding his hands down more confidently to the small of Marco’s back.

“And I’ll show you more things,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against Marco’s jaw. “Better things, when we’re not stuck picking up shitty grain and copping a feel in an alley.”

Marco laughs a little at that, and Jean is heartened when he feels Marco’s hands join at the small of his back in return.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

“Let’s go,” Jean says, pulling away, “if we get out of here right now and get going, we might be able to beat the storm back to camp.”

Marco smiles at him, and his expression is soft. “Only you’d try to outrun a storm, Jean.”

Jean grins, crossing his arms confidently, and replies, “Only if you come with me.”

“Always,” Marco replies, reaching out to touch Jean’s face with a smile. “I promise.”

They don’t quite beat the storm that day; but they plan, and dream, and touch.

And in a world not very hospitable to anything except the here and now, it’s enough.


End file.
